Lili is crying, p.11
Lili Is Crying, page 11
—Hey hey!
Élise and Marthe hail Lili from the porch of the hotel where they stand chatting, nonchalantly.
—Hey! Where are you off to?
Lili crosses the square.
And her white wicker basket.
Her knotted scarf.
Just the women, chatting among themselves.
—She’s going to tell us all about her love life.
Excitedly, they shout:
—Aren’t you coming over? You’ve easily got time.
Where are you rushing off to?
Why are you in such a hurry?
Her knotted scarf.
Her wicker basket.
Come and have a chat. You’ve got something to tell us. We’re bored.
Come and tell us all about it.
Lili, her scarf unknotted
her basket set down.
—Come in, sit down in the cool.
—Tell us, Lili, tell us how it’s going.
You’re living at Léa’s; you see the shepherd the whole day long.
—Oh, Lili trembles, clasping her hands together, ecstatic, gazing up at the sky:
(she’s been bursting to tell them)
He’s all strength, all light, she says.
She chatters on for the women who drink up her words.
—The evening of that day he went hunting—I’ve never loved him as much as I did that night.
He was coming down the mountain,
I was at my bedroom window.
and softly:
Robin Hood
The women chewing their lips, so keen to bring her back down to reality:
—It’s physical, the women exclaim.
Physical! shouts Lili, that’s all you can say?
I’ve told you what I have to say about that.
—It’s just physical, the women exclaim. It won’t last. You shan’t make such a stupid mistake. Getting a divorce to remarry.
—Naturally, replies Lili, it would sicken them if I were happy.
They’ll find every reason to make me give up the shepherd.
It is physical, cries Lili, that’s just it. And that’s why I’m getting a divorce to marry him. The body comes first.
It’s because I give him my body that I’m handing him my heart.
It’s because I desire him that I love him tenderly.
It’s because he makes me happy (Pleasure is Happiness) that I give him all my affections. It’s an exchange. A kind of love for myself that I redirect onto him out of gratitude.
The caresses of the heart follow on from those of the body.
—Where did you read that? asks Marthe. You didn’t come up with that all by yourself.
—You’re right, says Lili, I read it, can’t remember where, but I understood it because it captured my own experience so perfectly.
And all the paltry tendernesses of your moldy marriages stem from the fact that your desire was never truly desire in the first place, just a mix of aspirations that could only ever give rise to mixed feelings.
—Love is making you more intelligent, says Élise.
Indeed, says Lili, then she adds: a great love story such as ours is a rare thing, the pure attraction required to produce it is extremely rare. Which is why great passions so often spark between two people whom no one would ever think of putting together.
—You’re talking rubbish, cries Marthe, and you’d be better off burning those stupid books. I have a great deal of affection for Louis but that doesn’t stop me cheating on him.
—That’s because you’re a tart, says Lili.
—She’s gone completely cuckoo, sighs Élise.
Naturally, bawls Lili, you’d prefer it if I were just his mistress, wouldn’t you. Léa would too.
Because neither of you are capable of understanding what true love is.
It’s too much for your minds to comprehend.
—Come on, puffs Marthe, come on, there’s not a woman on the planet who hasn’t experienced true love. Please. Come on. Don’t exaggerate.
There’s nothing you can tell us that we haven’t heard before.
—When I was in Nîmes last Sunday, I saw a poster with the line: “One day my prince will come.” I thought of you, Lili, says Élise, in a voice that’s a bit honeyed, a bit sweet, a bit cloying.
For there’s no doubt in her mind that Lili will be disappointed. She can’t imagine it playing out any other way (she too has experienced True Love. But that’s another story, a limited-edition story reserved for a few select people, herself among them).
As for poor Lili, let’s not crush her dreams immediately, for she’ll be disappointed soon enough. Let’s let her believe that her dreams will come true. Let’s encourage her fairy tales so that when it does happen her disappointment will be even harder to swallow. For wouldn’t it be good to see Lili live out her TL and at the same time get brought down a peg or two. Level with Élise.
That’s what the cheap painted lips are really saying when they trumpet, in all caps: ONE DAY MY PRINCE WILL COME.
But the worst of it is that her bitter disappointment, their sinister prognosis, is approaching so fast, so swiftly, so quickly, it’s so near (her misfortune): the kind of cruel, inevitable, painful, mortal disappointment that alters your looks and takes the shine from your hair.
For in their fluttering, fickle hearts women know the only outcome.
—Oh look, says Élise, my lipstick has rubbed off. And she repaints her mouth in her pocket mirror.
What’s all this about Léa being happy about it? asks Marthe.
Lili goes on:
—You’re all the same. You’re only happy if someone else is unhappy.
That’s what their friendship is like. Their friendship: so old, so real.
A bond of friendship that’s so hard to break. That will never be broken despite all the bitter words, the veiled insults, the unspoken crude remarks.
You’re all the same.
They’re awaiting my downfall.
Today, at nap time, I got undressed to be more comfortable, then I heard a loud noise in the stairwell,
startled and not thinking straight, I went out in just my slip.
The shepherd must have heard the same noise, because he came out onto the landing too. Then Léa appeared and pushed us both into the shepherd’s bedroom. She locked us in.
—And then? the women want to know the rest.
—Nothing, Lili concludes. There are two single beds in the shepherd’s bedroom. We went back to sleep. I forgot to ask where the noise came from.
—It’s like a joke without a punch line, mutters Marthe.
—I’m not making it up, says Lili, it was Léa’s way of giving us her permission. Telling us that we could.
—Naturally, shouts Marthe, and she leaps up, for she’s had it up to here with Lili’s stories, naturally, for she knows full well that Léa is not the kind of woman who’ll take kindly to a daughter-in-law. The shepherd was raised knotted to her apron strings.
He adores his mother.
—As do I, murmurs Lili.
She’s the one calling the shots, Marthe goes on. You’re forty-three years old. She’s forty-nine. She’s a woman just like you. You’d better be prepared. Once you’ve divorced your husband, you’re going to have to get her on your side. When are you getting the divorce?
—It’s underway, says Lili.
Which isn’t true. She’s lying, outrageously. But she has to find a way to convince these women that: yes, she did the right thing, yes, she’ll live her dreams, this great love story will come true, yes, the shepherd loves her, yes, he’ll give up everything for her, he’ll forget all about his mother.
She has to shut these women up. Prove them wrong. And put a stop to this torment, the torment of their remarks.
—With him, Lili exclaims, I’d go to the ends of the earth.
—And what about your own mother? the women ask.
—What about Maman, Lili says, calmly.
—Who’ll foot the bill for the divorce? asks Élise.
—Maman, replies Lili.
—Damn her mother’s got some money, mutters Marthe.
And from that point on they look at Lili a bit differently, with a touch of admiration.
So, the divorce is underway.
If she can make it happen.
So much the better.
It doesn’t cross their minds that Lili might be lying, shamelessly.
They’re just as good at telling lies as Lili is, but when it comes to believing other people’s, their hearts are as trusting as a child’s.
Believing lies and doubting truths. A reversed form of clairvoyance.
Liars themselves and yet so credulous and easily taken in. It’s because their own lies are only ever harmless, well within the bounds of their childish day-to-day. Anything beyond that doesn’t count, it isn’t real.
And Lili isn’t really lying, she simply enjoys daydreaming about happiness, for fear of never experiencing it in real life. Like a child.
—Yes, says Lili, I will marry him. Because it’s not about lust, it’s love.
—Fine, say the women, best of luck, thanks for the visit.
And Lili stands up to leave, her hand over her heart, a charming smile playing across her lips, making light of her triumph:
—I don’t know what’s wrong with me, she says, I don’t feel so well.
All this adventure has been causing havoc with my health.
The heart fails.
She walks off, her hand over her heart.
The smile charming
The scarf reknotted
The basket wicker
No sooner is she out of sight than her husband crosses the square in the opposite direction—for at this point all the scenes in Lili’s life are overlapping, intersecting, running into one another. Hearts shattering everywhere at the same time.
Lili’s husband waves to his wife’s friends who’ve just bid a long goodbye to:
The gentle smile
The crisscrossed scarf
The dangling basket
He calls out:
—I’m on my way to Léa’s to bring Lili home.
The women shout in reply: one with her hands raised, the other with both hands cupped around her mouth.
—You won’t find her there, they say.
She just this minute left for Blanche de Laudun. She’ll be gone awhile.
We kept her talking.
—Today is full of obstacles, says Lili’s husband.
What time do you think she’ll be back?
—Count at least three hours, the women say.
—Fine, says Lili’s husband (he’s lying, he’s furious).
I’ll wait.
As he says this, he crosses the square to where the women are standing. I’ll eat here tonight, Marthe, he says, but for now I’ll have a drink. And if there’s anyone around, I’d gladly play a hand of belote.
—Come in, says Marthe, come on in.
She is full of sympathy for the man.
Élise goes home.
Marthe doesn’t say a word about Lili to her husband. Because she’s a true friend, she won’t betray her.
For Lili, says Marthe, speaking to her in her head as she prepares the evening meal, I might be trying to crush your dreams, but it’s not because I don’t love you.
—I love Lili dearly, says Marthe, out loud.
Lili’s husband hears her say it; it makes him happy.
And Lili, says Marthe, continuing her private conversation: you must know that we don’t mean the things we say, we’re only playing, we don’t want you to be unhappy, you mustn’t think that we don’t wish you well, it’s just that we can’t help tormenting each other.
Over her pots and pans, thoughts run out of her head and she can be overheard saying:
—I don’t know why I was so mean. But I’m talking to myself now, says Marthe,
and she laughs as she turns toward the men playing cards.
Killings
Words tangling.
Curses wrapping around each other.
Faces covered, half-hidden.
Two mouths in a single face.
Two shouting mouths.
Three eyes.
Half a nose.
One part blond hair.
Three-parts black crepe.
Movement, change.
A great jumble.
—Who’s to know what kind of woman you are, shouts Léa.
Who’s to know what kind of woman you are.
He can’t be her first.
Surely she’s had lovers before,
she’s a girl.
Male voice. Female voices. Sobbing.
Thirteen years younger. A divorcée in the family,
(they’re at Léa’s, in the main room of her farmhouse).
—This isn’t going to end well, mutters Marthe (in the hotel bar, in the style of a train-station buffet).
The decors mixing together.
Commotion. Rooms collapsing into each other.
My daughter’s husband, shouts the mother Charlotte.
My daughter’s husband.
Exterior scenes cut with each other.
—I love him, Lili sobs.
I love him.
—This isn’t going to end well, hums Marthe.
—I’ll kill myself, shouts Lili.
I’ll kill myself.
The shepherd will, too. He told me so.
We’ll kill ourselves
because:
we can’t live without each other.
—I’ll kill myself, shouts Lili’s husband.
I’ll kill myself if you don’t come home with me.
And why does she refuse to come home?
And will he kill himself?
Do you think he will?
Will he do it?
Will they do it?
—I will! I’ll kill myself, screams Lili in tears.
I can’t live this life any longer. It’s too much. It’s too much.
We’ll kill ourselves.
We all will.
What’s the point in living? Without you.
Without him.
Without her.
—I’ll kill him, cries the shepherd.
I’ll kill your husband.
He wants to take you back? Let him try.
And he brings his gun down from the wall.
—My love, trembles Lili, my love,
Please,
—Son, you’re mad, exclaims Léa.
Now she’s turning my son into a murderer.
The father who hasn’t said a single word
for many many years
draws up to his full height, his head touching the ceiling, takes in the shadows and the tormented bodies, the deranged faces.
The father stands up and, with a voice like thunder, he curses.
—That’s enough! shouts the father, grabbing a melon from the table and lobbing it at his son’s head.
—Oh oh! wail the women
he’s going to kill you my love
he’s going to kill his own son
he might have killed you my love
—That’s enough, says the father, all of you, upstairs to bed.
He goes first, slamming the door to the stairway behind him.
—I’m just going to step outside, whispers Lili, I don’t feel so well.
She goes outdoors, her hand over her heart.
It won’t be necessary for her to kill herself.
No, there’ll be no need for her to kill herself.
Death will come of its own accord.
Her heart won’t withstand so much pain.
She drifts around the farmyard.
Her hesitant footsteps directing her toward the cement washbasin, long out of use.
She has a fever. Fevers.
All the fevers all of a sudden all at once.
The fevers of sickness.
Of exhaustion.
Of love.
Of sorrow.
Of a wasted life.
a hard life, nothing gained, a life of disappointed hopes, come-to-nothing dreams.
Her ears buzzing, her veins throbbing, her legs trembling.
She collapses in a heap on the cold ledge of the washbasin, its hardness and coolness giving her some relief.
—I’ll kill myself. Yes, I will. I’ll kill myself. To prove my love for you.
If words are not enough, if words mean nothing now, if actions mean more than words.
If the most eloquent gesture. If actions speak louder. I choose this one: I’ll kill myself.
So that words might mean something again.
It’s where her husband finds her, panting, moaning, and miserable.
He’d heard whimperings in the dark.
And found Lili crying, her hair and clothes in disarray.
—Lili, Lili’s husband calls softly, what is it? What are you doing out here? Please, don’t tell me they threw you out of the house?
—Why would you think that? Lili replies in a low voice, I wasn’t feeling well, so I came out for some air, that’s all.
—I’ve come to get you, says Lili’s husband, up you go, lean on me, we’re going home.
—I don’t think I’m well enough, says Lili, it’s too far, I won’t make it.
Take me to Maman’s house instead. I’m not well and I’ll feel better there.
He releases his hold on Lili, she remains weak, enfeebled, her body bent over double.
If you’re as poorly as you say you are, he says, you won’t make it back to the boardinghouse. Let’s go in here, since you’ve said they’re not angry.
The Women
—She’s got nice legs, hums Marthe.
That’s true, sings Élise.
It’s physical, it won’t last. You don’t marry a woman for her legs.
—Pretty little peglets, shouts Marthe.
—Oh, laughs Lili.
Tumbling laughter.
—It’ll never last, purrs Élise.
You don’t say.
It was never going to happen.
Seated on the edge of the old washbasin.
That’s where he found her.
The shepherd never came out to look for her.
It couldn’t have lasted, says Élise, with forgiveness. (She forgives the shepherd.)
Because:
no, Lili shan’t be happy
no, she’ll never know happiness
Élise is “against.”
Both women are “against.”
Against Lili’s big dreams of love and happiness.
